One guitar, one take, no polish, and a riff that deepens for three minutes without ever once softening. Colt in a nutshell.
Colt puts my boots by the door.
He does it while I’m still on my second cup of coffee, and he does it without looking at me, and he does it the way you set out a bowl for something that has already learned the sound of the cabinet. Toes pointed out, laces tucked in, eleven in the morning on a Monday, my shoes aimed at the exit, and that is the entire conversation.
The mug is warm against my palms and the spoon is still in it, metal against my lip on every sip. The loft smells like dill from last night’s pan and the wet wool of his jacket.
“Where are we going?”
Alex answers from the sink, elbow-deep in a pan, water running over stainless steel. “Work.”
“Whose?”
“His.” He doesn’t look up either. There’s a plastic container by my elbow that wasn’t there a minute ago. Sandwich, apple, the little bag of almonds he buys in bulk because I ate four of them once and made a noise. It’s still cold when I put my hand on it.
